


Not A Quitter

by GroundhogLesbian



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, also this boy is really emotionally repressed and messed up by toxic masculinity, partially a depression vent fic but mostly just a character study-type thing, reference to a kinda messed-up sex dream, untreated confusing mental illness stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroundhogLesbian/pseuds/GroundhogLesbian
Summary: It's 1992. Phil Connors is 17 and struggling with all the things he's failing to be. Lacking in close trusting relationships, he finds himself quickly spinning out of control.





	Not A Quitter

**Author's Note:**

> So um. This is kind of a weird and dark one. I didn’t feel like beta-ing it this time, so I'm just putting it out as is. Feedback and constructive criticism are very encouraged.

Phil Connors is in his Spring term of 11th grade and everything is the absolute worst.

The kid he’d bribed to do his English homework for him has suddenly decided to blow him off, which is a real kick in the nuts right now. Phil even got a free high-horse lecture about accountability and how he “can’t expect everything to be handed to him”. Blah blah, whatever, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard a million times. What’s he supposed to do? He’s barely making it by on his other classes as it is and him writing an essay on a book he’s only glanced at is just not realistic.

It’s not even like the work is particularly hard. Hell, he has great insights. He could certainly pull together a more deep and nuanced analysis than half of the other bozos in his class, and Ms. Williams is impressed by their bland bare minimum points that state the blatantly obvious. Objectively, he knows he could ace it if he tried.

Problem is, he can’t bring himself to give enough of a shit.

Sure, he should show concern for his future and his academic career, and he does know that it’s important. He’s never going to be able to get out of the house and become a weatherman if he doesn’t put in the work. But as much he tells himself that, he can’t help feeling that maybe the future really doesn’t matter to him anymore. Over the past few years, it’s gotten increasingly hard to picture a day beyond tomorrow. Sometimes he thinks,  _ hey, maybe it would be easier to just let it all go. _

-

He still goes through the motions. He eats breakfast, goes to school, sits in class, takes notes to convince himself his mind is engaging. He doesn’t play hooky or go partying anymore, mostly to lessen Ma’s badgering. It was the only thing that ever made him feel present and connected to his fellow students, but he’s gotta cut something out so he can concentrate on his work. He also quit track team because who really needs all that extracurricular crap taking up his free time.

He wonders if he’s going to keep trimming his life down until there’s nothing left. 

He sits in U.S. History wishing he was out in the courtyard getting high or cuddling with Laura Reynolds from Chemistry. But maybe it doesn’t matter where he is. He will always be him.

He notices he’s picking at his left arm. He abruptly rolls down his sleeve and pulls it into himself. It’s only just growing tissue and it’s gonna take a lot longer to heal if he keeps messing with it, he knows that. But he still itches to open it up again and he’s not one for self-control.

Shit, it’s bleeding.

In a panic, he tries to discreetly rush to the bathroom without a pass and wets a paper towel to apply to the cuts. His heartbeat falls back to a normal pace as he presses.

His classmate Mark is standing next to him and apparently feels the need to add his commentary. “Dude, what happened to your arm?”, he says, likely intending to open Phil up to mockery.

“None of your business,” Phil mutters, wanting him to fuck off.

“That’s messed up, man. Are you a cutter or something?” Jesus, this guy has less social graces than even Phil himself. Who even asks someone something like that?

He hurriedly makes up something to shut him up so he doesn’t have to punch him in the face. “I was gardening. I was working in the garden and I was using one of the garden tools and I slipped. That’s it. Now leave me the fuck alone,” Phil hisses.

“Alright. Sorry bro, I’ll drop it,” Mark says, throwing his hands up. Phil waits for him to inevitably not drop it. “It’s just that...my cousin did that whole self-mutilation thing and it freaked me out. They had to restrain him at the hospital. I just don’t get why someone would do that to himself. You’d have to be totally insane, right?”

“Cool story, not relevant to me,” Phil says, not making eye contact with him as he heads back to class.

God, what an asshole. Acting like he’s concerned when he’s probably just gonna go tell everyone what a freak Phil is. He may not be all that together these days, but he is not fucking crazy.

-

Here’s the thing: it only happened once. It was a week ago, his parents were having another fight because Ma destroyed dinner and Pop was going on about how she can’t keep expecting him to come rescue her and handle everything when she’s having a hard time, and what kind of example does she think she’s setting for the kids with this behavior, and maybe Phil wouldn’t be so out of control if she would just work on herself before fussing over him.

Phil was so sick of this. He gets it! He’s a selfish lazy oversensitive screw-up who ruins their lives! Nothing new there! He wanted to be anywhere else, wanted something to give him relief, to just stop everything for one moment.

He took the pin that was sitting on his desk and made three slashes across his left wrist.

He was just trying it out. It wasn’t his usual kind of self-abuse. He preferred the casual neglect of his body, like not showering or overeating junk food or getting trashed with his peers. That was easier to brush off because it wasn’t like he was actively choosing to harm himself. He was just going with habit. He tells himself that this was just a stupid fluke, but that it’s gone this far is significantly more unnerving.

He’s been having the sinking feeling for a while now that something is going to tip. Sooner or later, something will break his facade of being the funny cool guy who doesn’t care about anything and he is going to fall into a deep dark void with no hope of escape. 

He has vivid recurring dreams of submerging himself underwater or driving off of bridges. The scenes have become strangely comforting. The peace of the water filling his lungs and the anticipation of the crash as he plummets.

There was an odd one the other night. He was in an unfamiliar room making out with a girl who then pinned him down hard into the bed and grabbed ahold of his neck so he wouldn’t think about leaving. Heat spread throughout his body and he told himself he was enjoying this. He wanted her body on top of his, the thrill of her holding power over him, her hands almost digging into his skin. He believed she couldn’t really hurt him. There was nothing to be afraid of, no reason to resist, even as her grip around his throat tightened and started to crush.

Even if he didn’t want it, that wasn’t going to stop her. She’ll take what she wants.

-

He comes back to reality when the bell rings and meets with Mary for the bus ride home. They don’t have much to say to each other, but she gets him to crack jokes and talk weather. It’s gonna pour tonight, but it’s looking to be clear skies from there on in. So, sure, there’s one thing to be reasonably optimistic about. Not that the heat is much better for his mind.

Ma is in the living room watching something on TV and greets him when they comes in the house. “Hey, kiddo! How was your day?”

He grunts miserably. He’s given up on saying “it was fine” or “ok”, since that never swayed her anyway.

“That good, huh?” She wants to be Phil’s friend, the person he can tell anything. But that’s just not something he can do. Not when every conversation they have feels like an interrogation. “What are you learning in school?”

Hell if he knows. He can never easily pull up the information without looking at the contents of his bag first. He says, “Well uh… We’re learning about acids and bases in chemistry.”

“What about them?”

“Oh, you know, how they…” Maybe if he just bombards her with different subjects, she won’t ask him to elaborate. “And we’re studying civil rights in U.S. History. And I’m writing a paper on Catcher in the Rye for English.”

“I love that novel. Do you know what you’re writing about?”

“No, I haven’t decided on a thesis.” Or who he’s gonna pay to write it now.

“I could brainstorm ideas with you if that would-”

“No,” he says sharply, continuing his momentum upstairs to his room and shuffling her attention off to Mary who can tell her all about the performance of her one-act play coming up and her inexplicably limitless capacity of energy. His main interest is getting to set his bag down and slump and avoid interaction with anyone.

-

The first thing he does is put on his Walkman and put in a tape of “Out of Time” by R.E.M., and then reach for his Gameboy to play Tetris, which he likes to believe gets him in a zen state of mind. Much like how he lives his life, he plays with little strategy and it predictably piles up too quickly for him to handle. But at least in games you can easily start over.

He still can’t wrap his mind around how much time he burns doing complete nonsense. If he had creative passions, he could at least feel like he was being productive. And, ok, there was the songwriting, but after crashing and burning at that talent show, he’s just not feeling it. Besides, it’s not like he has a lot to share anyway.

Ugh, moping doesn’t help anything. He decides to at least get in some Calculus homework before dinner. Crunching numbers should be pretty straightforward for him. But as soon he turns to the page in the textbook, his eyes immediately glaze over in disinterest.

_ Come on, dickhead. Pick up your dumbass brain and make it do something. Just get this one thing done, that’s all I ask. Put in some effort, just this once. This is the bare minimum. Just do one thing you can feel good about. I mean, not that it makes up for all the crap you’re behind on and stand no chance of catching up, but, god, just stop being such a useless piece of shit idiot asshole for one night. _

His left hand ends up absentmindedly tearing into his scalp as he tries to bully himself into concentrating. He manages enough steam to get a couple problems in before Ma calls. She made vegetarian chili. Pop is coming home from work late tonight, so everyone’s pretty much left to their own devices. Phil takes a bowl back to his room.

Fatigued from the concepts he’s had to backtrack in the book to understand, he gravitates to the Gameboy again and starts playing a level of Super Mario Land.

Wouldn’t you know it, Ma knocks at his door. He exasperatedly invites her in.

“I was just wondering what you were up to, if there were any trouble spots I could help with.”

“I was-I’m on math right now, and I’m doing fine, really.” He just wants to take care of this himself. She’ll only complicate it.

“That’s good, I’m glad.” She sits next to him and moves to groom his hair. He swats her away. “It’s just I know you get distracted and have problems with deadlines and I’d like to know what’s high priority-”

Phil gets abrasive. “I am working right now, I’d like to keep this momentum going. I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

“I don’t think-”

“I can handle this on my own.”

Her expression grows stern. “Phil, you know I don’t like it when you keep me in the dark about how you’re doing.”

He sputters, grasping for words. “Well-I’m here, aren’t I? At least I stay here and I don’t go out anymore because you freaked out about it.”

“I was te- You were coming home late and getting drunk with people who I didn’t know and certainly didn’t know if I could trust!”

“I wanted to fit in and, I don’t know, just be a teenager!”

“I have a right to worry when you’re putting yourself in danger and sabotaging yourself and you don’t even care!” Her voice cracks on the last word.

“It’s my life!”

“Believe me, I want to be able to trust you with your decisions, but you being alone and avoidant all the time is not healthy for you.”

“God, are we really going into this agai-”

“I am going to schedule an appointment between you and Dr. Weiss and you are going to talk about your i-”

“Damn it, Ma, enough! Just stop!” Phil knows he’s being louder than necessary, but he doesn’t pull back. “Is it any wonder I don’t tell you anything? I have no privacy around you!”

“What am I supposed to do, be like your father and not give a shit? Someone has to pay attention to what’s going on with you.”

“He gives me space. And there is nothing ‘going on’ with me. I know you want to project your whole thing onto me.”

“My ‘whole thing’?”

“Your- The doctors, the medication. You’re losing it and you wanna make believe that I’m losing it and you wanna try and somehow fix me and-”

“That is not true.”

“-Make me normal, and it is true and you don’t know how do it for yourself.”

“It is a process and it’s not easy, but I believe that seeing someone does help.”

“Right, and, what, talking it out and popping pills is helping you to have breakdowns at the market, and stay in bed all day, and zone out while driving me and Mary and almost crash? I mean-”

“That’s not how it works.”

“All I’m saying is maybe they’re what’s messing with your head!”

“I just-” She goes silent and pulls at her jacket, not knowing what to do with herself. She laughs sourly as her eyes are welling up. “I’m scared for you. Alright? I’ve been where you are right now and I recognize it and I… I don’t know what’s going to happen to you when I’m out of your life. I don’t know that you’re going to take care of yourself. And I don’t know what you need from me. I’m really at a loss, Phil. I have no clue what I’m doing.”

He can’t do this. He just wants to not think. Something horrible is happening. Staring at his knees, he says low and forcefully, “I don’t need anything. I don’t want to be anyone’s problem but my own.”

They both stay there frozen in silence for too long. He says he’s tired and they should both go to bed and he’ll feel better in the morning. She finally relents and cautiously rubs his back good night, which he allows.

-

After she leaves the room, he collapses onto his bed. The rain falls hard against his window. An intense dread fills him.

If Phil can’t help himself, how the hell could someone else? What could he possibly get from them that he doesn’t already know? He’s tried counseling before and all it does is give lame pep talks and get him to set goals he’ll never follow through on. He doesn’t go anywhere, he doesn’t do anything. He’s trapped and the room seems to get smaller and he’s just trying to breathe.

He shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be so pathetic and defeated. No one is going to hold his hand through life. None of this should be that big a deal. He won’t admit it, but there is something wrong with him.

Pop always tells him that “can’t” is a state of mind. The challenges one faces are only ever as hard as he imagines them to be. This is the prime time of his life and Phil’s choosing to waste it. That’s nobody’s responsibility but his own.

His body feels like garbage. He hasn’t had sex in months since he got all gross and greasy, and even jacking off has gotten just depressing. He wonders how long he’s been this hollow and used-up.

He still has a flask of vodka hidden in a compartment in his desk to calm his nerves. He grabs it and takes a swig.

What is going to happen to him? Is this it? Is this all that there is? He tries to envision a future where he’s fine and successful and all of this is faded, but there is just nothing there. There is nothing good ahead of him. He pictures himself passed out in a ditch or not paying attention crossing the street, and he doesn’t even fight it.

He grimaces at the ceiling with the flask held to his chest. The cuts on his wrist itch again.

He’s so sick of feeling this endlessly shitty. He wishes he had a different body, a different mind. He wants everything that he is to be gone. He wants to go to sleep and not wake up.

With that thought, he feels light and off-center.

-

He finds himself out in the hall still holding the vodka, making sure no one else is awake. As it turns out, Pop came home and went to bed about an hour ago and Phil didn’t notice.

He enters the upstairs bathroom and locks the door behind him. His hands reach to rifle through the medicine cabinet and he takes a bottle of Ma’s sleeping pills. With the two items in his hands, he drops to the floor, back against the sink counter. Something has taken hold of him and he is serenely absent. He unscrews the bottle to make sure there’s enough pills to do it. He takes a moment to collect his last thoughts.

He’s mentioned wanting this before. But he always either said it in the company of other disaffected youths or in heated arguments with his sister. Mary would give him crap for being insensitive and trivializing such a serious issue. Well, is it serious enough now?

He briefly thinks of all the kids he barely knew who’ll be telling each other how they were his best friends and how much they miss him. He doesn’t dwell too long on being mourned for fear of losing his resolve. He can’t imagine many people missing the real Phil anyway.

He contemplates eternity. He doesn’t know which theology is correct, but he suspects that, once it’s over, it’s over. He won’t have to feel or think anything ever. He’ll be weightless.

He almost considers that he’ll be  _ free _ , before being struck by how perverse that sounds.

He thinks about making himself swallow down all the pills with the alcohol and letting his body be destroyed, no going back. And abruptly, something churns in him, something like lucidity or survival instinct, and he realizes,  _ I can’t do it. _

He can’t do it. Fuck.

He’s clutching the bottle hard. The thick feeling in his throat that’s been building bubbles to the surface and, to his disgust, tears spill from his eyes. He puts down the flask and brings that free hand to his face, hoping to stifle it and keep anyone from hearing the deep shuddering sobs that are shaking his body. God, he’s such a fucking coward. And he’s not sure whether it’s worse that he wants to die or that he’s still alive.

He doesn’t know what to do. So he just stays on the tile floor, wrecked and cursing. Finally, he tells himself to get it together. 

_ This didn’t happen. No one can know about this. It will not happen again. You know why? Because think about what would happen if you tried and failed. You’d be put in some creepy psych ward and everyone will either hate or pity you or just think you’re the most embarrassing loser who ever lived, and no one will ever let it go or leave you alone. So you know what you’re gonna do? Toughen up. Be better than this. It doesn’t matter what it takes or how long, but you are going to keep getting up and working and dealing with whatever shit you have to until you get over this. And you’re going to make it happen by yourself. No more crying like a bitch in the bathroom at midnight. No more giving up. _

He puts everything back as he found it. When he returns to his bed, he’s out like a light. He doesn’t dream all night.

-

He awakens to his alarm clock at 6AM. He eats breakfast and gets ready for school. He makes small talk with Pop about the newspaper before he heads out the door. He doesn’t think about last night as any more than a bizarre outlandish episode. Someday he’ll laugh about how ridiculous he was as a kid.

Somehow he feels like a new person. Harder, wittier, more confident. He’d better keep this attitude going. It’s not enough to just make your peers think you’re cool. You have to believe it. That’s how you get places in life. And, hell, this sure feels a lot better than the alternative. He has it figured out now.

Phil Connors is reinventing himself and he has no intention of turning back.


End file.
